


a grave favour

by gudetama (elementary)



Series: Prompt stuff [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animagus, Animal Transformation, Gen, Hurt Original Percival Graves, Inspired by a Trailer, Movie 2: Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald, Prompt Fic, Thestrals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 15:17:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15821553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elementary/pseuds/gudetama
Summary: A striking image, Newt thinks with wonder, one of the most feared and misunderstood creatures and a man also feared—perhaps misunderstood as well—creating an impossibly peaceful picture.





	a grave favour

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a few prompts combined because I wasn't creative enough to write something for each one lol
> 
> \- Graves's animagus form being a thestral  
> \- him introducing a herd of thestrals to Newt (not included: him being an omega and them being soulmates)  
> \- and creature!Graves dragging Newt away from trouble  
> \- PLUS the trailer of TCoG showing thestrals (I THINK)
> 
> Today was a strange day where I just felt like writing this

This is it.

It isn’t the first time Newt has thought that, but there is a distinct sense of finality with this one. His mind somehow flits back to how this all started, with a single letter from his former professor, Dumbledore. _We need to stop Grindelwald_ , he said, _only you can do it_ , he said. And though Newt hadn’t quite said ‘yes’, Professor Dumbledore hadn’t really heard a ‘no’.

Hence, he is to die sometime in the next few minutes fighting next to his brother against too many of Grindelwald’s fanatics.

Grindelwald himself is nowhere to be seen, and a part of him worries the man might have gone after Tina and the others. Merlin, he doesn’t wish to die, not like this; leaving his creatures behind without anyone and so many more of them in the world undiscovered and unlearned, failing Theseus who may soon follow, failing Leta who may lose both her fiancé and friend. Failing Tina and Jacob and Queenie, failing their own kind, _why was this his burden_ —

A great shadow falls over them and knocks into one of their opponents too quickly to see, derailing the spell aimed for him. The terrible shriek accompanied by a pained scream makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand, and Newt finally spots the dark mass in the night sky. A flash of a spell from a dark wizard streaking past it reveals a gaunt animal’s head with a hooked beak-like mouth and great wings stretching from a skeletal four-legged body.

A _thestral_.

Newt can’t tear his eyes away even while holding his wand up with a shaking arm as it deftly avoids the other spells shot its way and flies towards the attackers, ramming into them. There are sickening crunches and sounds of heavy impact which makes Newt wince, but thank Merlin the wizards have been deterred effectively.

“Now, Newt!” Theseus suddenly yells.

And Newt’s gripping his wand tightly again, stunning the disoriented group and swiftly binding them. The creature smartly steps out of the way from the mess of spellwork and soon they’ve incapacitated all their opponents, the thestral even knocking out one trying to escape.

“Bloody hell, we did it,” Theseus mutters disbelievingly, near-collapsing to the ground. “Where on earth did this one come from?”

The thestral stands tall next to them illuminated by a small _lumos_ , and despite its usual grim appearance and Newt’s lack of encounters with the species, Newt can still tell it’s not in good shape. Malnourished and weak, it trembles on its feet. How is it here by itself away from its herd, he wonders.

“It needs help, Thes,” Newt informs his brother. “I’ll take it to my case if it’s willing after we finish here.”

“I don’t think so,” a voice suddenly says followed by the sound of a hex being casted.

 _Shit,_  Newt thinks.

Before Newt can even bring his arm up to block his head, the thestral is suddenly there in front of them and light bursts from behind it. It whinnies from being hit and someone curses—perhaps all of them do—and Newt’s helping the poor thing land softly on the ground while Theseus apprehends the new follower who arrived to check on the situation.

Newt hushes the agitated creature and grimaces at the bleeding injury on its neck. It’s only when he tries to dredge up the last of his reserves to temporarily stop the bleeding that he notices something unusual next to the wound: a collar of sorts, now broken where it must’ve taken the brunt of the hex. Uncertainly, carefully, Newt removes his coat and uses it as a barrier to pull it the rest of the way off.

“What is that?” Theseus asks upon his return.

“I’m not sure, something that didn’t belong on this fellow even if it’s domesticated,” Newt mumbles, observing the item.

To their surprise, the thestral suddenly  seizes and Newt calls for his brother to step back. They can’t risk using magic without knowing its full condition but physically restraining it just may hurt all of them. In the next moment, it seems to crumple in on itself and Newt watches horrified, shares a brief look with Theseus. It shifts, _shrinks_ , the elongated head morphing to something rounder, tail and wings disappearing, limbs shortening—

“Oh my god—” Theseus gasps.

By the end, a naked human male—almost equally gaunt as the thestral and too, too pale against the blood and dirt and long, greasy hair—lies before them, breaths shallow and unsteady.

“ _Graves!_ ”

 

 

They found him, the once impersonated and presumed dead Director of Magical Security or America’s Magical Congress who somehow escaped on his own.

 _Presumed dead_ , something that doesn’t sound quite right even to Newt who mostly prefers the company of the non-human variety.

His short days spent in New York had indicated the director as a highly important and necessary person to the American wizarding government even before he was revealed to be an imposter, yet none of their actions post the incident gave Newt the impression of such, as if they couldn’t bother to put in the effort to at least ascertain the real person’s status. When asked, Tina had squirmed guiltily and avoided his eyes.

“It’s not that we don’t—that we don’t care; but it’s a bit more complicated than that, Newt. Politics. You wouldn’t understand.”

Oh, Newt understands plenty, hears plenty from his brother’s tired, helpless rants. _Politics_  means anyone can be expendable. Really, how is it so different from dark organizations, he ponders sometimes. In fact, Newt has seen criminals with better morals and ethics than government officials.

Percival Aodghan Gondulphus Graves, no longer presumed dead but alive and recovering, and saver of Newt and Theseus's lives.

“Even half-dead he needs to be noble and brave,” Theseus had said at some point knowingly with a shake of his head.

So, obviously his brother is somewhat acquainted with the man which helped when moving him to safety and he woke up panicking.

It doesn’t explain why, then, Mr. Graves asks for him a few days after he wakes. After his brother, but before any of his other acquaintances such as the aurors he once trained and supervised. He doesn’t look their way just as they don’t his as he passes them in the corridor in the direction of the healing wards.

Newt doesn’t know what he expected, but he’s mildly surprised to find Mr. Graves sitting up in his bed, not shaven but clean and with a healthier flush to his skin. Still too thin and rather frail-looking, yet simultaneously sharp and poised in a way that speaks of the strength with which he must have carried himself, a commanding presence.

His breath catches unconsciously when the man meets his eyes.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Scamander,” Percival Graves says with a low, dry rasp of one recovering his voice. “Have a seat, please, if you will.”

He gestures to a visitor’s chair next to him.

After slight hesitation and a glance around the ward—private use, he’s never seen the inside of one before—Newt accepts the invitation.

“I won’t keep you long, save both ourselves further discomfort,” Mr. Graves says as soon as he sits.

When Newt raises his eyes from his lap (habits, habits), he’s met with a crooked smile, perfunctory in that it that doesn’t quite reach the eyes. From this close, he can see more the haggardness that burdens the man’s shoulders and shadows in the lines of his face. The straightness of his posture and polite expression are part of a crumbling mask he wears, it feels like.

“Your brother tells me you are an expert in helping magical creatures.”

That... isn’t what Newt expects, and it delays him in stumbling out an affirmative.

There is no disdain or mockery on Mr. Graves’ face despite Newt’s usual lack of social grace, only relief as he nods. “I have a favour to ask of you.”

As the man explains, Newt can’t help his own astonishment at the words. Sceptical as he is, Mr. Graves is quite earnest in asking, obviously concerned about the subject.

"I don’t mean to be ungrateful and demanding on our first meeting—” then Mr. Graves trails off, a strange expression crossing his face. “Well, I suppose in a sense that this isn’t the first.”

There’s that smile again, mirthless and empty. Something within Newt twinges as the implication dawns on him.

“But that wasn’t the real you,” Newt hastily responds.

Mr. Graves stares, blinks slow, and can’t quite hide a grimace as he turns away.

Oh, how thoughtless of him to say such a thing, Newt realizes too late and bites on his lip. Actions speak louder than words, and as far as the Magical Congress was concerned, Grindelwald _was_  the real Mr. Graves.

Silence.

Newt shifts uncomfortably. “Mr. Graves—”

“I’ve heard of the role you played,” Mr. Graves suddenly says, looks at Newt once more with something terribly weary. “And for that, you have my eternal gratitude. This isn’t how I wanted to show it as I am already in your debt but if you would grant me this, I promise to return the favour and more; whatever you need in the future, if it is within my power to do it.”

Newt swallows; the words feel heavy on his chest. “That won’t be necessary, truly. I’m more than willing to help. And please, call me Newt.”

“Alright,” Mr. Graves nods, the answer relaxing him some. “Thank you, Newt.”

 

 

With Mr. Graves rescued and relaying information, they manage to prevent the rise of Grindelwald’s army for the moment and Newt is able to carry out the favour he was asked. It takes some days after clearing the city of every last follower, but eventually a small herd of thestrals are freed from one of the dark wizard’s bases. They were more enslaved than domesticated and forced to do their bidding, the poor things. An article of clothing from Mr. Graves allows Newt to guide them into his case, strangely enough, but he puts aside his curiosity and focuses on healing them.

The utter relief when he tells the man is almost too much to look upon.

Against the healer’s recommendation, Mr. Graves insists on going to see them with Newt’s permission, and Newt hardly has the heart to refuse.

His curiosity grows.

Newt remains at a distance once he shows Mr. Graves where they are, close enough to supervise but far enough to give the illusion of privacy. Each step Mr. Graves takes is heavy from a long period of inactivity but he almost desperately pushes forward. The thestrals simply stand there and watch him approach which is amazing in itself.

When he sees the man reach out a hand, Newt nearly moves to stop him. Instead, he watches in shock as the nearest of the herd steps up to meet that hand, pushing its head into the touch. An expression Newt can't quite fathom blooms on Mr. Graves face, and it makes him feel like an intruder. Yet, he can't turn away as each thestral is approached and seemingly comforted by his touch. With each connection the man steadily relaxes as well.

A striking image, Newt thinks with wonder, one of the most feared and misunderstood creatures and a man also feared—perhaps misunderstood as well—creating an impossibly peaceful picture.

It jars Newt from his admiration when Mr. Graves suddenly starts removing his clothes and unable to remind him of an audience, he quickly looks away. Strange noises come from that direction, of something shifting and cracking and ripping.

“Mr. Graves?” Newt calls out tentatively, unable to turn back just yet.

The noises settle, and Newt receives no answer.

“Mr. Graves,” he tries again, finally daring to see.

Mr. Graves is nowhere to be found.

 _Merlin’s balls_ , Newt inwardly curses as he searches from his spot, anxiously wondering how to disperse the herd should Mr. Graves be hidden amongst them. He had one job, to keep the man safe, and he’s—he’s—

It occurs to him abruptly as the pieces come together—the pile of clothes and no person, eight where there was seven, when they first found him, not as a man but—

_It wasn’t a curse?_

They hadn’t spoken of it to anyone, he and Theseus—the transformation, the collar, the specific form. Theseus had said it wasn’t their place to ask, and nothing was to be reported without the complete information. They had assumed amongst themselves that it was a transformative curse fused into the collar to hide the man where no one would look.

 _“There are rumours about the Graves, that they associate with the darkness as a means of maintaining their power,”_  Newt remembers his brother once saying.

Not accurate, but neither is it wrong. Darkness isn’t always a bad thing.

A thestral meets his gaze, eyes haunting as they are beautiful, and Newt knows it’s him. The others have gathered to him, and the serene air about the creatures somehow both contrasts and complements what most would consider their ominous forms.

And just like that, everything is fine. This is a privilege Newt could not have anticipated at all, an unexpected reward for helping this man even though he would have gladly done so regardless of the request.

After offering an awkward wave, Newt leaves them alone to go prepare for the evening rounds, the secret locked away where no one will look.


End file.
